Brandon Morris - The Enceladus Mission - Hard Science Fiction

“You won’t need an apartment. There are rooms for the Flight Controllers in the basement, in case their shift runs late. One of them will be made available to you.”

“One… two… three… go!” said the voice from the loudspeaker. The safety belts dug into Martin’s shoulders. His entire body was being accelerated upward. A powerful force resisted and squeezed him. His heart raced, and he tried not to bite his lips. Then liberation came. The seat flew onward without exterior forces acting on it, until it went down again. He fell into a bottomless depth until he finally landed gently. The ejector seat exercise showed Martin for the first time that this training would take him to the limits of his physical endurance—and beyond.

Even from below, this apparatus looks terrifying, he nervously observed. At carnivals, Martin had always given such rides a wide berth.

“That was fun, wasn’t it?” Willinger asked. With his large paw he patted Martin’s shoulder—like the rest of Martin’s body it still felt strangely soft. Martin decided, one really has to be an oddball to enjoy such events as these. At first, the flight to Florida had seemed to be a welcome diversion. During the past three weeks in Texas he’d had to absorb knowledge like a sponge. In case of emergency he was supposed to be able to take on the roles of doctor, scientist, mechanic, and pilot. There wasn’t enough time to test all of this in practice, but at least he now knew in principle how to set a broken bone, how to extract a tooth, and how to perform an appendectomy. What he had learned wasn’t always useful—on Enceladus, he would hardly have to treat heatstroke. And, as a precaution, all astronauts had their appendixes removed before the long journey.

At Naval Air Station Pensacola in Florida, theoretical learning became much less important. Before his ride on the ejector seat simulator he had learned the basics about dangers during a rocket launch, ejector seat trajectories, and rescue routines. There seemed to be only one central question to consider—how much strain could Martin Neumaier withstand? And was he even capable of being an astronaut? No one here appeared to know he had been previously informed that his place on the Enceladus spacecraft was secure. Everyone, up to his coach Willinger, treated him like a normal recruit. As Martin was at a U.S. Navy installation, the tone was quite a bit harsher than at NASA Houston, where the people were mostly administrators.

“What are we going to pursue tomorrow?” Martin asked.

“Just a moment. We still have to take baths today,” said Willinger with a sly chuckle.

They entered a building that was obviously an indoor swimming pool. It was empty. Martin was given a diving suit, and he was supposed to swim three laps, an easy exercise for him. Afterward he had to change his outfit, donning a combat uniform that was much heavier than the diving suit, and then return to the pool. The fabric soon became waterlogged and no longer fit tightly, but instead pulled him downward. The heavy boots also made it harder to kick with his legs. Nevertheless, he managed to cover the three required 30-meter-laps since there was no time limit to prevent him from finishing.

“You seem to be able to swim,” said Willinger. “That’s good. Otherwise, I would have worried whether or not you were going to survive the next exercise.”

Martin had already wondered why a metal capsule with windows hung above the pool. It looked like a helicopter without rotors. A crane moved the capsule to the side of the pool. Willinger strapped Martin to the left seat, while the right one remained empty.

“Just a moment. I need to change.”

Willinger put on a diving suit. Martin looked at him as he approached. Even though he must be over fifty, his body still seems to be in great shape.

“I will be behind you, and when I tap you on the shoulder, you will unbuckle, open the door here,” he said, pointing at the door next to the pilot seat, “and swim to the surface. Understood?”

Martin nodded, and then the crane picked up the capsule and moved it over the pool. He heard a loud clicking, felt a moment of weightlessness, and then the capsule sank, gurgling below the surface. Martin took a deep breath—the windows were open. Water flooded the inside. Instinctively, he wanted to open his safety belt and flee, but then he remembered to wait for the signal. He felt a hand on his shoulder. Willinger was floating in the water to the right of him. Martin pulled the door handle, but it was stuck. Willinger made gestures for him to stop. The other door! I have to open the other door! The thought raced through Martin’s mind. The capsule was already three-quarters full of water. Martin unbuckled and had to dive down to find the door handle next to the pilot seat. He joggled it, but he did not have enough strength to open the door.

Of course, the water pressure, Martin suddenly realized . He would not be able to open it until the capsule was completely flooded, but it shouldn’t be long. Martin gasped for air one last time, then pulled himself down by the door handle and started counting. At the count of fifteen, he pressed the handle again. The door swung open, and he pulled himself out and swam upward. When his head broke the surface, Willinger was next to him.

“Lesson 1. Always listen carefully.” This time, he was not laughing. “But it was good you didn’t panic. Most people don’t realize the door cannot be opened for a while.”

Martin nodded. “And now what?”

“The same procedure, but this time blindfolded.”

“Is that supposed to be a joke?”

Willinger once more uttered his familiar raucous laugh. “No.”

“We will meet tomorrow in Building 3801,” Willinger had told him when he left. He had given Martin a mysterious look when he said that.

“Oh, and don’t eat too much for breakfast.”

Martin stood in front of the entrance to Building 3801 and waited. The sign read, Naval Operational Medical Institute . He did not know what to make of this. It is probably going to be another medical exam.

Willinger came around the corner, right on the dot. As a greeting, he gave Martin a hearty slap on the back. Martin had expected that kind of gesture and softened it by taking a small step forward.

“Ha,” said Willinger appreciatively.

Yesterday, Martin had asked every colleague whom he encountered what Building 3801 was about, but each one had just smiled mysteriously. This appeared to be part of the initiation ritual.

The building itself did not indicate a particular purpose. There were conference rooms and offices on the ground floor. The two men walked past them and reached a security gate sporting the sign, Multi-station Spatial Disorientation Device . Willinger and Martin held up their ID cards to a scanner.

A double door led into a large, almost circular room. In the middle, Martin saw a device mounted on a round pedestal. Ten barrel-shaped capsules without windows, labeled 1 through 10, hung off arms leading from the center. The apparatus reminded him somewhat of a carnival carousel. It appeared strangely old-fashioned. Martin shivered because the room temperature was barely in the upper teens.

A technician in blue overalls greeted them.

“Our MSDD. An antique beauty, isn’t it?”

He explained that the system had been constructed back in the 1970s.

“It is even older than you, sir,” the technician said with a smile to Willinger, whom he appeared to know well. He gazed at Martin. “And you are reputed to be such an exceptional programmer.”